by Krissy Kneen
The glow-worms shivered in their tiny webs. The tiger yipped and yowled. It was the sound of a baby in distress, an alien baby. She watched it turn and push past a pillar at the back of the cave. There would be an exit there. She knew where it was: too small for a man to walk upright, perfect for someone crawling or something running on all fours. The passage led down to the underground stream. She knew it. She had tracked it once: thrown luminous glow-sticks into a trickle and followed them down. Through the honeycomb to the stream under Winter Cave, out at Exit Cave.
A hard climb, but a clear and even path. She noticed the creature limping: some pain in a back leg.
‘You let him go,’ Marijam hissed.
‘It wasn’t him.’ She sounded sure. But that limping—she had shot Matthew in the leg. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.
‘It was the tiger,’ said Marijam.
‘A tiger.’ Jessica nodded. She lowered her gun. ‘A thylacine,’ she said, relieved that she could hear certainty in her own voice. ‘Just think about that.’ She stepped forward, towards the place where the tiger had disappeared, and shone the light on the ground. Little drops of blood.
Jessica breathed out. She felt light-headed, as if something fragile and heavy had finally fallen away, a shell she had been hauling around with her without even knowing.
‘I know where it’s going.’
She didn’t need to hurry now. There was an easy way, a shorter way. She turned a corner, Marijam fast on her heels, and there was the sound of water and the clear stream at their feet. She stepped into it, felt it lapping at her ankles. The tunnel came out behind a curtain of flowstone. Jessica raised her gun, just in case. Just in case. She heard a scramble, felt a surge of wanting: she wanted to see it again, a thing so rare, a creature of myth.
A shuffling sound, an awkward drag, a body moving into view.
Matthew.
Jessica frowned. Above her a thousand larvae glowed. They were awake now. This was the peak time, hunting time. They were on their highest alert.
She kept her gun steady.
‘Don’t move.’
But he did move. Into a crouch. His lips dragged back into a snarl.
There was a sound behind her, a scrabbling on the slippery stone. She felt Portia push against her legs, race ahead, heard the deafening bark rattle the walls of the cave.
‘Stop,’ Jessica called; then, ridiculously: ‘Heel!’
The dog didn’t stop. Matthew ignored the rush of fur and teeth, was staring straight at Jessica as his muscles tensed in the crouch and he leapt at her, his arms outstretched, his fingers bent into claws, teeth bared. She felt a shiver of horror along her arms. He was coming for her, suspended in air, aimed like a bullet in her direction, and Portia leaping towards him. Two beasts of flesh and fur and hair on an inevitable trajectory.
She breathed out. Pulled the trigger. Matthew fell.
Portia landed on his chest and shuddered there, growling, trembling, snapping.
In Jessica’s dreams there had been a wave of wet, a hot sluice of blood, and she felt it now. Not his blood, but her own, flooding to her face, her hands, her shoulders. A rush of adrenaline. She felt awake, alive.
Portia turned and ran towards her, barking. Jessica dropped to her knees and there was the dog, licking her face in an ecstasy of relief. Marijam’s hand on her shoulder, warm and solid. Jessica felt the calm, steady breath.
Matthew lay in the river. A trail of blood seeping out of him and flowing out with the clear mountain stream. Jessica could see something twitch in the torchlight, a tiny pale fish, nibbling at his neck, his chin.
‘I’ve been asleep,’ she said. ‘I’ve been fast asleep.’
Marijam laughed harshly. ‘Well, this racket would wake the dead, I reckon.’
The dog looked up before they heard the footsteps. A single yip; not angry this time.
Maude had her gun raised. She lowered it as she approached.
‘Heard the shots. Thought you might need some help here.’
Marijam shook her head.
Crystal pushed towards Jessica, stared at the body on the ground then opened her arms. The tight drum of the belly between them, the kick of the child. Only a matter of weeks now before it would be out in the world. She hugged and let herself be hugged and felt a tickle of breath on her neck.
‘See?’ It was a whisper in the high-pitched little voice. ‘It’s going to be all right now. You just do what you have to do, then get on with it. We’re good like that. Tough as nails.’
They stepped out into the stone cathedral. There were still signs. All these weeks later and there were traces of what had happened here. A scrap of police tape, heavy boot prints in the silt, a filter from a cigarette, a nail. She bent and picked up the nail and slipped it into her pocket.
‘You okay?’ William stepped towards her, took her hand. He still had a limp, but it bothered her more than it seemed to bother him. Six months off work, he had said, raising his arm to high-five her, but she had only frowned, feeling the guilt settle heavy on her shoulders.
Jessica looked around the cave now. Just small traces. All the blood cleaned off, all the drug paraphernalia taken in as evidence.
It was self-defence. Of course it was, how could it not be? And yet Jessica had hesitated before her plea. She was guilty. She still woke up from her recurring nightmares bathed in sweat, wondering where she was in the world.
Here. She was here. With William, and Portia, doubled in size now, sleeping quietly at home in Hobart, a good girl, such a good girl.
‘You okay?’
She took a shuddering breath in. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Yeah. I’m okay.’
‘You ready for this?’
Jessica felt tears pricking her eyes. She wasn’t ready for this. She would never be ready for this. But she nodded. She had come all the way back down here. What else was there to do?
Tomorrow she would start work at the university.
If not today, then when?
‘Come,’ he said. ‘I need to sit down for a bit.’
They sat on the cave floor. It was cold, but warmer than it had been back then in the dead of winter. She remembered the cold that night. She remembered.
She held her breath. She reached out and took William’s hand.
‘One,’ said William, he squeezed her fingers gently and she liked him; she might even love him. He was a good man. There were good men, and this was one of them.
‘Two,’ said William, and before he could take a breath she said it.
‘Three.’
She turned the torch off. She kept her eyes shut. She tilted her head towards the sky. On the next in-breath she opened them.
Darkness. And in the darkness a glimmer. A little light; two of them, three. A few more just at the mouth of the cave.
‘They’re coming back!’ she said, breathless. ‘They’re resilient little buggers, aren’t they?’
He squeezed her hand again but remained silent.
‘Look at them shine.’ She felt something on her cheek, water, a drip from a stalactite, but then another and another, and she knew she was crying.
‘Turn the torch on,’ said William.
But she said, ‘No. Not yet.’
And she cried quietly, and she held his big warm hand and she looked up to the cave roof which was the sky and one by one the stars blinked on and there was her universe, coming good, getting on with it: hunting, waking, living.
‘Are you looking?’ she said to William. ‘What do you see?’
‘Stars,’ he said. ‘What do you see?’
‘Everything,’ said Jessica. She let go of his hand in the dark. ‘It’s beautiful.’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you first and always to Text Publishing, such a brilliant publisher. I am a massive fan of your list. And in particular to my editor, Mandy Brett, midwife to this and many of my books. And to Jane Novak, my agent and my friend, who plucked this book out of my ‘maybe it won’t ever see the l
ight of day’ pile and made me take a second look at it. See what you have done? Text, Mandy, Jane, your belief keeps me upright and heading back to my desk. Your behind-the-scenes work is what keeps the world of literature turning.
This book would not have happened without Barry and Denise Elphick. Visiting you has been a wonderful excuse to explore Tasmania and to discover Southport and the caves. And to my dad, Barry in particular, who was never too busy to take me to the many locations described in this book. What marvellous adventures we have been on, on land and on the sea.
Thank you also to Emerald Roe, who generously provided me with a Southport shack which may or may not be featured in this book.
Thanks to Anthony Mullins, who braved the scary, wondrous forests alongside me and who adeptly pointed out the structural flaws in my story, working side by side with me on the screenplay version of this book to set us on the right path. You are my first and best collaborator. In particular I feel like you are a participant in the writing of this book. You certainly made it better and our filmic iteration of it may be even better still. May we create many beautiful things together for all the years that we have left.
Thanks also to the generous Lauren McGrow, who took me to Hastings (covertly) and Mystery caves and plied me with mulled wine, good food and even better stories.
To my sciency network, to Amanda Niehaus, Emily Purton, Nigel Beebee, Alicia Sometimes, Tamara Davis. And to the glowworm scientists who were so generous with their knowledge and allowed me to mirror their research like a great big literary thief: Claire Baker, Arthur Clarke and David Merritt. You guys were my guiding lights in the darkness of the last days with this book.
This book is a shout out to the women in my life. I would like to single out my main crew here: Kristina Olsson, Katherine Lyall Watson, Ashley Hay, Ellen Van Neerven, Mirandi Riwoe (my first readers), Fiona Stager, Rebecca Harbison, Melissa Lucashenko, Kate Harrison, Michaela McGuire, Jackie Ryan, Carody Culver, Maureen Burns, Anita Heiss, Anna Krien, Susan Hornbeck, Bronte Coates, Suzie Miller, Claire Christian, Susan Johnson, Adele Pickvance, Kasia Janczewski, Rachel Edwards, Indy Medeiros, Linda Jaivin, Favel Parrett, Sally Piper, Cass Moriarty, Annie Te Whiu, Helen Bernhagen, Marieke Hardy, Greta Moon, Judy Horacek, Silvia Cosier, Léa Antigny, Jay Court, Sarah Lynch, Cora Roberts, Michelle Law, Tracey Chin, Jen Clark, Tania Christianson, Gillian Berthold, Fiona Macdonald—high five, sisters. Please keep teaching me stuff and challenging me.
And in memory of Cory Taylor and Narelle Oliver, who were both present and supportive during the writing of this book and who have carved out big holes in my life that can’t be filled.
Also to the women who raised and made me: Lotty, Wendy, Sheila and Karen. I am you in my blood and in my bones. There is no separating us in art or in life.
To the men, trans and gender-queer folk who have my back, my gratitude, always. With particular mention of Trent Jamieson, Chris Somerville, Benjamin Law, Scotty Spark, Steven Amsterdam, Corey DeNeef, Ronnie Scott, Sam Cooney, David Stavanger, Jason Reed, Rae White, Ben Hackworth, Liam Pieper, Chris Currie, Colin Cosier, James Cosier, Martin Cosier, Ian Cosier, James Butler.
Thanks to my Avid Reader and Where the Wild Things Are family and in particular to Sarah Lynch, who I tortured with roster changes, going away every five minutes to write and edit this book.
This book was written while procrastinating—I was supposed to be writing a different manuscript with the support of the Australia Council for the Arts, so that funding was a two-for-one. Thanks, OzCo! See what a bit of financial support can do?
An early draft of a chapter from this novel was published in Island magazine.
And finally I would like to thank Gerard Donovan, who gave me my very first blurb for my very first book. Your novel Julius Winsome has been in my heart for the longest time and it kept resonating while I was working on this book. I have always wanted to write something as good as that, and it’s a goal I continue to strive for.
ALSO BY KRISSY KNEEN
Affection: a memoir of love, sex and intimacy
Triptych
Steeplechase
The Adventures of Holly White and the Incredible Sex Machine
An Uncertain Grace
Krissy Kneen is a Brisbane writer. Her last novel, An Uncertain Grace, was shortlisted for the 2018 Stella Prize. In 2014 she won the Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prize for Eating My Grandmother.
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Copyright © Krissy Kneen, 2018
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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Published by The Text Publishing Company, 2018
Book design by Imogen Stubbs
Cover photograph by Cosma Andrei/Stocksy
Typeset in Bembo 12.5/17.5 by J&M Typesetting
ISBN: 9781925603880 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781925626858 (ebook)
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia